Another Ten Minutes
by Raletha
Summary: Treize is not enjoying his tour through the Colonies. At least not until he makes the acquaintance of Quatre Winner. (13x4 - pre-canon, AU-ish, mature themes, sexual content)


Another Ten Minutes 

By Raletha

  


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**Disclaimer**: Gundam Wing does not belong to me. It is copyrighted to Bandai, Sunrise, and the Sotsu agency. I am using the characters for entertainment purposes only. Original content and concepts, however, are my own: © Raletha January 2004 & beyond.

**Pairings**: 13+/x4

**Rating**: R

**Content**: pre-canon, slightly AU, consensual adult/minor sexual situation, Treize POV

**Summary**: Treize is not enjoying his tour through the Colonies. At least not until he makes the acquaintance of Quatre Winner.

**Notes**: A short fic written for the 'ten' challenge on gw500 

**Thanks**: Mephisto Waltz for the quickie beta read.

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I am an eagle with nowhere to soar here on L4; an eagle among songbirds here in Colonial space. They flit about their massive titanium cages content enough, but I am claustrophobic. 

I am also bored and growing hungry for both intellectual and visceral indulgences. I glance around the crowded ballroom for some worthy diversion among the twittering fowl of L4's upper crust. A string quartet whines and moans in flat incompetence somewhere beyond my vision. No one is dancing, just drinking and talking and flapping their stunted little wings. 

Then I see him. He stands alone in the corner, fair and golden, resplendent in a black velvet dinner suit with a silver silk tie on a silver silk shirt. It's tailored sharply on his slim frame, in a style that echoes traditional Earth fashions, but nevertheless embodies the best of the inimitable and _avant garde_ Colonial aesthetic. 

He is the young, only son of my host (a deluded, fanatically naive man) and I see not the slightest trace of the father in the son. I smile and begin to wend my way toward Quatre. The boy can't be older than 14, with his delicate features and willowy build, but I see in his eyes the hard glaze of sophistication, and boredom has twisted his pretty mouth into a grimace of disenchanted distaste. 

I change course to swoop past a waiter and pluck two tall flutes of champagne from his tray before I resume my approach of Quatre. He flicks imaginary lint from his lapel before turning his head and leveling a direct, measuring gaze at me. The suddenness of it takes me aback, and my steps slow minutely. He does not look away, nor does he speak as I come to stand beside him. 

"You appear as inspired as I feel," I say. It is not my best overture, but I suspect Quatre would resent flattery. I suspect he has heard it all from others, and I sympathise with him for it immediately. I spare a glance at my wristwatch as I extend one of the glasses toward him: twenty-four minutes past nine o'clock. Should things go poorly with Quatre, I may be able to leave without offense to my host within the half hour. 

But I am rewarded. The sun comes out: his grimace gives way to a fleeting, amused smile, and I sense in it a flicker of greater magnetism. Unformed and untested is his charisma, but it is there, an integral and accidental gift of nature--perhaps from the boy's anonymous mother. 

"Then I pity you, Ambassador," Quatre answers. The violin squeals, and Quatre flinches--a twitch of one cheek, the brief closing of his blue eyes, and a slight shake of his head. He accepts the glass, and cradles it idly, with the stem dangling between two fingers. I am surprised: I expected him to decline. 

"Treize," I correct him while my gaze gluts on his features, enjoying the line of his cheekbones, his fine set jaw, and his supple lips. I sip my drink to quell the flutter in my belly. 

"I know," he says, "Treize." He pronounces my name faultlessly, with no trace of a Colonial twang. The boy has had good tutors. 

"Quatre," I reciprocate, forming the syllables as they too are meant to sound. 

I am rewarded again--a faint blush of pleasure dusts his complexion. "Thank you," he murmurs, glancing down at his glass. Now he lifts the drink and takes a tiny sip. I watch his lips part against the rim of the glass, his throat quiver as he swallows. 

My desire to witness these events in a more personal context burns lower. Without averting my gaze from his face, I lazily indulge a vision of those lips parting against me, of being swallowed by that sweet mouth, milked by that pale throat. 

Under my surveillance, I see his blush darken. His hand trembles as he lowers his glass, but his smile is not shy. I admit; it intrigues me more. When he raises his regard to meet mine, I see rebellion, but I know I am not the object of it. I entertain the notion I may, in fact, be the goal. 

That impels me to touch him, lightly below one shoulder-blade, my fingers extended, spanning the space between his spine and the curve of his ribs. The velvet is dense and plush beneath my hand. "Is there any entertainment to be found here tonight?" I inquire, leaning closer, "The hired musicians play poorly, and your father's politics have left me in a profound ennui." 

Quatre glances at my wrist, I follow his gaze to my watch, and peripherally I apprehend his satisfied smile. My watch reads thirty-four minutes past the hour. 

"My chambers," he says _sotto voce_, "are on the second floor in the left-central wing--the last two doors on the right." His words are all the more compelling for his lack of seductive intonation in imparting this bold information. 

"They overlook a private rose garden," he continues. "I'm told it's very Earth-like. You may enjoy the view." He hands his full glass back to me, and speaks more demurely as our hands touch, "Excuse me, please." 

I watch him gracefully navigate the crowd and exit to the hall. Another ten minutes, and I shall follow. It pleases me to know among all the sparrows and finches here, there dwells at least one raptor. 

**the end**


End file.
